


Oceans In Between Us

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Previous Relationship, Rekindling but not really, Sibling Incest, So much angst, Stanford Era, boys crying, did I mention the angst?, just more angst, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 06:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10961607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: California. He’d been avoiding the state like the plague for over a year now.





	Oceans In Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> This got way outta hand - before I knew it, it's clocking in at over 5000 words. Don't ask, 'cause I don't know. I just wanted some painful, angsty, torturous Stanford Era interaction. Enjoy, if you can.
> 
> ...I also find it hilarious that I'm learning so much about US geography from writing Supernatural fics. Bless you, Google Maps. Hopefully it'll become relevant someday. Like if I go on Jeopardy.
> 
> Titles is from "Blurry" by Puddle of Mudd. It's a metaphor, see?
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is so so loved!

Dean’s been uneasy since he gotten this job.

Not the job itself, of course. It’s a simple enough case: one lone vampire terrorizing a little town. Nothing weird or out of the ordinary. Nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times already.

It isn’t the job. It’s the location.

“Dean,” John’s voice had said in the voicemail. “Bobby got an anonymous tip on what sounds like a vamp just outside Gilroy, California. I’d check it out myself, but I got called to Virginia, won’t have time. If you’re still in Oregon, head down and take care of it.” A pause, and then, “And check on him. It’s been a while, and I get the feeling this tip wasn’t actually that anonymous.”

Dean had deleted the message with a sinking feeling in his gut. California. He’d been avoiding the state like the plague for over a year now. Too far west in Nevada and his heart started to pound. Anything further south than Portland made him queasy. He’d picked up a story on a haunting in Bakersfield about six months ago and had to pass it on to someone else. He’d made a concerted effort to ignore a rash of deaths outside of Sacramento, had just been steeling himself to go when it turned out to be a normal human serial killer.

John had been the one checking in. Swinging through Palo Alto, loitering outside of lecture halls and libraries, accepting Dean’s excuse that his truck was more incognito, that the Impala was too recognizable, without question. Dean was grateful. His father had never asked him to go.

Until now.

He crosses the border along Route 5, wheels in California for the first time in years. He rolls through Weed and then Black Butte, towns that had made him laugh on previous trips, but there’s nothing funny about much right now. He skirts around Sacramento, picking up 680 just east of Vallejo. When he stops in Sunol for the night, he toys with his phone for the better part of an hour before he works up the nerve to call.

It’s not like they haven’t talked on the phone recently. They’d chatted for about thirty minutes only five weeks ago. But that had been when Dean was in Georgia, practically the entire country in between them, and it had been light and easy. Now, even as the phone rings in his ear, he can feel the weight pressing down, the thousands of miles between them evaporated into nothingness, now that he’s less than an hour away.

“Dean?”

The voice strikes him hard in the chest. He’s so close that he feels like if he rolled over, Sam would be there in the bed beside him. It’s a long second before he can reply. “Hey.”

“Where are you?” Sam sounds breathless, like he’d run to grab the phone. He doesn’t usually ask that, not right off at least. Dean’s gut churns. “Whatcha up to?” he asks, ignoring Sam’s question.

“Studying. Big test tomorrow.”

An out. Dean grabs it. “Oh, sorry man. I’ll let you go.”

“Fuck you. Don’t hang up.”

Finger on the END button, Dean hesitates. He doesn’t say anything. Sam’s breathing, still too heavy, floods his ear. “Where are you?” Sam repeats. "You’re close, aren’t you?”

“Sunol. Just across the bay.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam exhales. Dean hears the scrape of a chair against the floor, like Sam has gotten up so he can run all the way across 84. “Why? Why now?”

Dean laughs weakly, rolling over on the bed. “Anonymous tip, huh?”

Sam has the grace to sound a little ashamed. “It’s getting bad. Four dead. Two this week alone. Couldn’t keep it to myself.” He inhales sharply. “Didn’t think it’d be you though. I figured Dad…”

“He couldn’t. Sent it my way. Told me to look in on you.”

“Can’t disobey a direct order, even when it’ll put us in the same state.” Sam’s voice is harsh, sardonic. This is an old argument. Sam had been hurt that Dean refused to come. He understood, but he was still hurt. Dean knows that he was hurt, but he couldn’t handle it. The state lines were like walls, put up to keep the agony of separation at bay. To breach those walls was to invite that agony in, open his door wide for it. He couldn’t. It would kill him.

Even now, now that they’re less than an hour apart, he can feel his heart twisting painfully in his chest.

“Sam…” He’s gripping the phone hard enough that the plastic creaks warningly in his ear.

“You’re coming, aren’t you?”

“Sam, I can’t - ”

“If you won’t come here, I’ll come there. You know I will. You can’t stop me.”

“Sam, please.” He’s begging now. He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have called. But he doesn’t know how he could have resisted.

Sam’s voice is resolute. “You can’t, Dean. You can’t come so close and then say no. I’ll find you. You know I can.”

“Let me deal with the case first. Please, Sam. Please?”

Silence, an interminable silence, and then, “You’ve got 48 hours. Shouldn’t take you longer than that.”

Tears are leaking past his screwed up eyes, sliding back across his temples to drip ticklishly into his ears. “Okay. Okay.”

“Capri Motel, where 82 meets 84.”

“I know it.” That’s where John stays, when he goes. Of course Sam would know that.

“Don’t try to leave. I’ll just follow you.”

He’s crying in earnest now, big fat tears and hitching breaths, the whole nine yards. It’s not what Sam wanted, but Dean knows he’ll take it.

“Don’t, Dean,” Sam pleads, a quaver in his voice to match. “Don’t. Just come. Come when you’re done. Please.”

“Okay,” he whispers, broken and beaten down.

"Okay,” Sam agrees. “Two days. I’m waiting, Dean.”

The line goes dead in his ear and Dean lets the phone fall onto the bed.

* * *

 

He’s in Old Gilroy the next day, sources the vamp, puts it down without a fuss. He feels unusually focused and he knows it’s Sam’s influence.

He could go early, check into the Capri, call Sam. Instead, he returns to his original hotel, buys a cheap bottle of whiskey, and gets trashed. He’s trying to talk himself out of it, trying to talk himself right out of the state, out of California and out of Sam’s reach because it’s bad for them, bad for both of them. Sam must have made friends, must have started seeding a new life for himself. If Dean goes to him, he’ll just salt the earth Sam is carefully cultivating and burn it all down so nothing can grow there again. It’s better if he just leaves, just goes to sleep for a few hours, sobers up enough to drive, and gets the hell out of Dodge.

He doesn’t, of course. He follows the plan as far as the “go to sleep” step, but he sleeps for twelve hours straight, wakes in the dead of the night with a dry mouth, a pounding head, and a text message that simply reads “Don’t, Dean. Don’t. Please.” Obviously, Sam hasn’t forgotten all his Dean-ology in his quest for higher learning.

He waits until the forty-seventh hour before he swings the Impala into the lot of the Capri. Classic Dean, waiting until the last hour, minutes to midnight, taking every minute as the chance for a last-ditch miracle, a Hail Mary pass.

Sam is sitting on a curb outside. He climbs to his feet as the Impala rolls up, and as Dean cuts the engine, Sam dusts his hands off before he lays them on the hot metal of the hood with a reverence that Dean's never seen him show the Impala. He can feel Sam’s hands like they’re on his body, not his car. He's suddenly achingly, blindingly aroused.

He gets out as Sam leaves the car with a gentle pat to her bonnet and walks around to meet him.

“Hey.” Sam is casual, relaxed, as though it hasn't been thirteen months two weeks four days since they've laid eyes on each other, as though he's not standing in front of the cheap motel room he's rented so he can fuck his older brother, as though they're not about to rip the bloody bandage off this wound that's opened between them and expose it to all the painful elements.

“Hey.” If Sam wants casual, Dean's got casual in abundance.

“All good with the vamp?”

Dean scoffs. “Please. You forget who you're talking to.”

Sam's eyes are hooded. “No, I don't,” he says quietly and the words puncture a neat little hole in Dean's bravado. So much for casual.

“Sam,” he starts, but Sam shakes his head, turns away, heading for the door marked with a rusted number 11. Dean follows, because what else could he possibly do?

The room is generically terrible, like every other they've stayed in. Dean gets the feeling he wouldn't be able to sleep in a fancy hotel room. There's only one king bed, a glaring detail in the otherwise commonplace room. Sam's backpack, the same one he'd stuffed his life into a year ago, sits on the tiny table. Dean sinks into a chair beside it.

Sam heads to the little fridge, opens it, retrieves two beers. He cracks them open and hands Dean one. Dean arches an eyebrow questioningly. Sam shrugs, perches on the edge of the bed, only a few feet away. “I kept one fake ID. Comes in handy. I was pretty popular in my dorm.”

This is what Dean's been waiting for: some concrete proof that Sam is building something for himself here, something neither of them can afford to tear down all for the sake of the fucked up, tangled thing they'd shared. “Made some friends, have you?”

A beer, maybe two, and then he'll plead his case and get the hell out. Sam's a smart kid. He's got to see the sense in it. Dean's just got to explain himself properly, not let anything get in the way, like his stupid fucking thoughts and feelings or the urge to throw Sam back on that king bed and kiss him until they both can't see straight.

Sam lowers his beer. “Yeah. A few. It's kinda weird, to make friends and then...keep them. Not move away. It's different. It takes...effort.” He looks up to see Dean drain his beer and start to climb to his feet, but the look of determination on his face must give Dean away, because Sam is at his side, bringing him a fresh bottle, not letting him get away. He takes the bottle, sits back down, but doesn't drink. “Sam.”

“Dean, shut up.” Sam's face is set. Dean's got his work cut out for him here today.

“Don't you have more questions?” Sam snarks, lip curling. “How are my classes? Am I keeping up with my PT? How many girls have I fucked?”

Dean closes his eyes, reaches into his jacket for the bottle he brought. He can't do this sober and Sam's beer isn't cutting it. As he brings the bottle out from under his jacket, it's snatched away. He opens his eyes to see Sam - too close, too close, _way_ too fucking close. His chair scrapes on the floor as he pushes backwards.

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam says softly, heated and deliberate. “You're not going to do this. You're not going to run from me. And you're _not_ going to drink your way through this.” His hand circles the top of the bottle, cracks it open, and he takes a deep swallow, coughs a bit at the burn. “I won't let you.”

“Won't let me?” Dean says sharply. Sam's yanking all the rugs from under him and confiscating his liquor like a tightass RA. He's got a right to be pissed.

Sam's eyes flash at his words and he takes a step forward, the look on his face daring Dean to move back again. Dean stands - or sits, he supposes - his ground, staring up at Sam.

“You want a drink? I want something in return. Barter system.” Sam dangles the bottle in front of Dean. Tempting, but Dean had seen it coming. He closes his eyes again, turns his face away.

He hears the soft thunk of the bottle hitting the floor. Rough hands are on his collar, dragging him forward, and he looks back to meet Sam's eyes, scant inches away now. “Goddamnit, Dean, why are you doing this?” Sam demands. He shakes Dean, hard. “Why are you making this so hard? Why are you torturing us both?”

Dean swallows hard. He can smell the whisky on Sam's breath, can see Sam's lips trembling just a bit. “Do you have a girlfriend, Sam?”

Sam laughs, a surprised sound. His head falls forward and they're so close that Dean could just stretch forward and kiss the crown of his head. He doesn't. Sam's hands drop from Dean’s collar, fall to rest on his knees. “No, I don't,” he says, defeated. He scoops up the whisky bottle, opens it, takes a long swallow and grimaces. He hands it silently to Dean and Dean's fingers slip on the smooth glass. He takes a good swallow of his own as Sam wanders back to sit on the bed.

“Friends with benefits?” Dean continues, capping the whisky and setting it on the table. Sam gives him a look. “No.”

“Fucked anybody?” Dean's voice is casual but his eyes are intent on Sam, who's focused right back. “Yes,” he replies lightly.

“Girls?” Dean asks. Sam gets back up from the bed, reaching for the whisky. He drinks before answering, voice rough with the burn of the liquor. “Two.” He lingers by the table, close enough that his leg brushes Dean's knee.

“Guys?” Dean feels like he's playing Twenty Questions, but he knows what he's actually doing is opening the door, just slightly. It's up to Sam now. Dean prays to God that Sam won't walk through it.

He doesn't. He obliterates it. The door may as well have never existed. Sam never does anything half-assed. He steps in closer, towering over Dean. “None,” he says hotly. “No guys. No one but you.” He leans in; Dean smells the whisky on his breath. “Never anyone but you.” Then his hands are on Dean's shirt again, yanking him upwards, dragging him to his feet and then his lips are on Dean's and there's no stopping them now.

The sensation of their bodies pressing together once more, after so long, makes Dean gasp into Sam’s mouth. Sam swallows it down, twists his hands in the neck of Dean’s t-shirt, stretching it all to hell. Their lips slide together, tongues swirling and dancing, teeth grazing - messy, primal, desperate. Dean’s hands roam all over Sam: through his hair, along his back, down over the swell of his ass, back up again to where they settle on his hips, pulling him closer. He feels the hard heat of Sam’s cock pushing against him and he shoves his hips into it, feels the vibration of Sam’s moan through their entwined mouths.

They’re panting against each other, whisky scent strong on their breath. Sam moves his mouth to the curve of Dean’s neck, biting down gently just below where his jaw hinges. Dean tilts his head, digs one hand into Sam’s stupid long hair, gripping hard, holding him steady and Sam groans against his skin. Dean feels teeth sharp on his throat, Sam sucking and biting a ring of dark purple marks that’ll leave him with a lot of explaining to do for the next few days, but he couldn’t care less, just ruts their hips together mindlessly and lets Sam ravage him.

Sam pulls off with a wet smack, dragging them apart just long enough to yank his shirt off over his head and toss it aside. Once he’s free, Dean gives in to his earlier impulse and flings Sam bodily onto the bed - no easy feat, with Sam clearing at least three inches on him and obviously he _is_ keeping up with his PT, ‘cause he’s lean but toned as hell, abs flexing as he hits the mattress. His eyes are wild, hazel irises swallowed up by pupil, and his mouth is swollen, bruised lips still wet with spit. Dean rips his own shirt over his head and climbs onto the bed like a jungle cat, sinuously crawling up the seemingly never-ending length of his brother’s body.

He settles in on top of Sam, who spreads his legs to make room, and rocks his aching cock into the cradle of Sam’s pelvis. Sam tosses his head on the pillows restlessly. “Dean,” he moans, raising his hands to run over Dean’s chest, bitten-down nails catching on nipples and making Dean hiss. “Please, need you. Need you so bad.”

Dean drops his head, brings his lips to Sam’s own nipple, biting into the dusky pink nub. Sam arches up into the touch. He’s still talking. “Needed you for so long, Dean, it’s not the same without you, I’m not the same. Feels like I’m - _fuck_ , right there - like I’m just going through the motions. Everything here is so different, but somehow it all reminds me of you.”

Breaking away from Sam’s salty skin, where he’s been leaving his own set of marks, Dean rests his head on Sam’s hard stomach. “Sam, shut up. Please. I can’t hear this.” He pushes his face into the firm muscle, dips his tongue into Sam’s belly button, feeling him quiver beneath the touch. Sam reaches down, grabs his head on either side, pulls it up so their eyes meet across the expanse of his body. “Too bad,” Sam says harshly. “You need to hear it.”

Dean swallows hard against the feeling of his throat closing. He wrestles out of Sam’s grip, sitting up and back on his heels. He reaches for the button of Sam’s jeans and thumbs it open, pulling them along with his boxers down those mile-long legs, letting them fall to the floor. Sam’s cock, rock-hard and weeping, is flushed against his tanned skin and Dean’s mouth is watering at the sight.

He wastes no time, wraps his hand around the burning length and leaning in, drawing his tongue across the leaking slit. Sam moans, high and sweet, hips pushing upward into the sensation. Dean swirls his tongue over the head, lapping up the sharp taste of precome, before he engulfs Sam entirely with his mouth, pushing everything out of his head but the feeling of his brother’s cock in his throat and the sound of his brother’s cry in his ears.

Sam writhes under him, fucking in shallow thrusts into Dean’s mouth. “Dean, Jesus, feels so good. Fuck.” Sam’s words are choppy, his voice rough as he gets a grip on Dean’s short hair as best he can. “ _Fuck_. Your _mouth_. I missed it. Needed it. Needed - ah - please, Dean.”

Dean hums around Sam’s cock, bobbing his head up and down the length, using his hand to slick along the bottom where he just can’t reach with his lips. Sam’s hips thrust like a piston until they start to stutter, losing the rhythm. “Gonna come,” Sam groans, nails scratching against Dean’s scalp, the other hand clenched in the bedspread. “Gonna come, Dean, you’re gonna make me come.”

Dean rolls his own hips helplessly against the mattress at Sam’s strained words. He feels Sam’s balls draw up tight against his body and Sam gives a guttural cry as he comes, pulsing down Dean’s throat, filling his mouth. Dean swallows again and again, drinking down everything Sam gives him, the salty, slightly bitter taste washing over his tongue, a craving left unsatisfied for so long.

He waits until Sam’s body relaxes, tensed muscles going limp, before he gently pulls off Sam’s softening dick. He crawls back up Sam’s lanky frame until they’re face to face. Sam’s eyes are closed, but when he feels Dean draw up beside him, he reaches out and drags him in, sealing their mouths together, licking the taste of himself off Dean’s tongue.

They break apart, nestling together like sleepy kittens. Dean’s own cock is still aching, but it’s low on his list of priorities right now. He buries his face in Sam’s hair, resting one hand on Sam’s smooth chest, feeling his heart rate returning to normal. They’re silent for a moment, the only sounds the rush of mid-day traffic outside and their breathing.

“Dean?” Sam says, tracing one hand along the faint bumps of Dean’s ribs under his skin.

“Hmm?” Dean hums into Sam’s hair, inhaling deeply that long-missed scent.

“I want you to fuck me. Please.”

Dean suppresses a groan. He doesn’t reply, just noses deeper into Sam’s dark locks. Sam's asking for it like Dean has a choice, like this whole thing hasn’t been foreordained since the Impala rolled into California. Sam lets his hand wander down to the waistband of Dean’s jeans, brushing over the bulge at the crotch. “Please?”

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean grits out, emerging from Sam’s hair reluctantly. “Why are you even asking?”

Sam’s eyes drop and the fingers lightly circling over Dean’s denim-covered cock go still. “I don’t know,” he whispers, and it’s like he’s twelve again; shy, insecure Sam, wanting nothing more than to please Dean and be near Dean and be like Dean. “Maybe you don’t want to anymore. Maybe I coerced you into this.”

Despite himself, Dean laughs. “Make it sound like you raped me.”

Sam rolls his eyes and they’re themselves again for just a minute, Dean making stupid comments and Sam being exasperated. “Don’t be stupid,” Sam says, but then the moment is gone and his big hazel eyes are vulnerable and scared. “I just...I think maybe I need you more than you need me, Dean.”

Dean could almost laugh, if his heart wasn’t in his throat, choking him. Fucking Sam, so smart and yet so utterly clueless. Doesn’t he know that Dean has been living half a life since he got on that bus to Stanford? Doesn’t he know that Dean walks around in a daze, seeing him everywhere: in songs on the radio, in the dusty books used for a case, in every kid brother tagging along after a big brother that Dean comes across at a small town park? Doesn’t he know that Dean is torn between joy that Sam is living his life and making a future for himself - a future that he wants, that he is in control of - and despair because it means that it’s the end of them, that even this is a step too far and it can’t happen again, that they somehow have to find away to just be brothers, because Dean is selfish in so many ways, but he will not - _will_ _not_ \- sacrifice Sam’s chance at the life he wants for the sake of himself?

Doesn’t he know how much effort it takes for Dean not to let himself be taken down by whatever monster or spirit he’s hunting that week, because surely death is preferable over a life without Sam beside him?

“Dean?” He’s been silent for too long and Sam is still wide-eyed and trembling and Dean can’t do anything beyond drag Sam close and seal their mouths together again.

It’s fierce and intense, desperation leaking from both of them, and it escalates quickly - Sam ripping Dean’s jeans open, shoving them down over his hips, dragging his boxers off and flinging them aside. They grind together for a minute or two before Dean brings his fingers to Sam’s mouth, letting Sam slick them with saliva. He drops back down to between Sam’s legs, circling his hole gently before sliding one wet digit past the ring of muscle. Sam wriggles against the touch, panting into Dean’s neck.

Another finger and it’s not slick enough, not wet enough, and Sam is hissing “Just do it, Dean, please” but he won’t, he can’t hurt Sam. “Sammy,” he begs, even as the two fingers twist inside his brother’s body and Sam whines. “Sam, I _can’t_ \- “

“There’s lube on the nightstand,” Sam gasps, sitting up a bit. “I forgot.”

Dean withdraws his fingers carefully and rolls across the bed to grab the little bottle off the tabletop. He’s back immediately, coating his fingers with the slippery liquid, pressing back into Sam as gently as possible. “Fuck! Cold,” Sam complains, but Dean can get in deeper now and does, brushing against Sam’s sweet spot and Sam arches off the bed, body curved like a bow. “Dean, _fuck_!”

It’s still too soon, Sam’s not quite ready, but Dean can’t take any more time and Sam looks like he’s ready to combust, so Dean squeezes a generous amount of lube into his palm and slicks it over his cock quickly, pressing down at the base to stave off the orgasm that’s been building for so long.

He flings Sam’s legs open, settles between them, lining the weeping head of his cock up with Sam’s opening. “Do it, Dean, do it,” Sam urges, twisting below him. His cock is hard again, leaving glistening smears on his sun-browned skin. Dean slides in, just a little, letting Sam acclimatize to the invasion. He waits, muscles quivering, until Sam punches his shoulder. “Fuck, Dean, move. C’mon, go.”

Dean pushes in further, until he bottoms out and their bodies are flush. Sam grabs the back of his neck, hauls him in for a vicious, lip-biting kiss. “Fuck me, Dean,” he whispers against their joined lips. “Fuck me now.”

Lost, Dean pulls out and slides back home. Again and again, until he’s dripping sweat onto Sam’s chest and their breathing is harsh and ragged. “Yeah, Dean, yeah,” Sam encourages, wrapping his legs around Dean’s body and hooking his ankles together. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

They rock together, hips pushing into each other, so close they could be one. Sam throws his head back, revealing the flush that’s spread over his chest and up the long column of his neck. He’s grunting in time with Dean’s thrusts, sharp, bitten-off noises that occasionally contain words. “Yes, fuck, Dean, c’mon. Yeah.”

Dean feels the beginning of the end, in the tingle at the base of his spine and the spinning in his head. He thrusts deeper, pulling Sam’s legs up higher, just the right angle to hit his prostate over and over and suddenly Sam is clamping down around him as he comes again, untouched, spurting over his stomach and chest, the cords in his throat flexing as he cries out in ecstasy.

The sight is enough to push Dean over the edge and he buries himself to the hilt in his brother’s body once more, filling him with hot jets of come. He jerks and twitches over Sam, hips still pistoning away, lost to the sensations tearing his body and brain into pieces.

After what feels like years, Dean grinds to a halt and slumps down on top of Sam, letting his softening cock slip from Sam’s body. Sam makes a noise as come leaks out and down between his cheeks, but he doesn’t move aside from reaching up to wrap his arms around Dean, pulling him down until they’re cradled together, sweaty and sated.  

They lie quietly, letting their breathing slow, letting the sweat cool on their skin. Then, Sam shifts against Dean, pressing his forehead into Dean’s temple. “Thank you,” he says softly.

It takes a few minutes before Dean gives himself away, but it’s the shaking of his shoulders that does him in; at any rate, they’re too tightly entwined for him to get away with it for long. “Dean?” Sam queries. He lifts his head to see the tears rolling down Dean’s face. “Dean, Jesus, what the hell? What is it?”

Dean can’t speak, can’t do anything beyond lie there and sob like a child. It’s just like when they talked on the phone two days ago - hitching, laboured breaths, big cartoon tears, quivering lip. He’s helpless to stop it, even with the horror on Sam’s face as he witnesses his older brother bawling like a baby. “What, Dean, what?” Sam demands, shaking him a little, but Dean just gulps and sniffles, hot, salty tears still streaming over his cheeks. To his own horror, he watches Sam’s big hazel eyes glazing over. If they both start crying like children, the situation will just become irredeemable.

“Dean, stop. Please,” Sam begs, one shining drop tracing down over his cheekbone and Dean’s lost it now; not that he ever had it, whatever it is. He throws his arm over his eyes, letting the sobs tear their way from his chest, painful and deep.

Sam buries his face in Dean’s heaving chest and Dean can feel the wetness on his skin. “Stop, Dean. Stop it. You’re scaring me,” Sam murmurs into his chest. He pushes closer, as though they could possibly get any closer, wrapping Dean tight in his arms like a vice and Dean is reminded of when Sam would have nightmares as a kid and Dean would hold him as he shook in terror.

Dean pounds his fist on the bed, trying desperately to regain control. Eventually, his sobs wind down to hiccupping gasps. His chest hurts, his lungs aching. He sniffs violently, wiping his nose with his arm and he can feel Sam laugh wetly into his stomach. “Gross.”

“You’re gross,” Dean returns thickly, throat raw and burning. Sam raises his head, chin digging into Dean’s solar plexus, and his eyes are wet and red. “Dean,” he begins, but Dean shakes his head sharply and gathers Sam up in his arms, tucking Sam’s head under his chin. “Please don’t, Sammy,” he pleads. He can’t take any more.

They fall asleep together, curled up like little kids in the backseat of the Impala, the noonday sun streaming down over them through the thin curtains.

* * *

When they wake, it’s twilight.

Dean sits up, pushing Sam off him gently, rubbing one eye. He doesn’t feel at all refreshed by their nap: just tired and wrung out, like a damp rag. His eyes itch, an annoying reminder of his crying jag. Sam clambers off the bed, snags the whisky off the table, and sinks down next to Dean, offering up the bottle. Dean takes a swig, grimaces, and hands it back. Sam drinks and tightens the cap. He snuggles into Dean’s side, laying his head on a bare shoulder. Dean rests his head on top of Sam’s.

“I should go,” Dean says eventually, voice hoarse. Sam stirs against him. “I figured,” he says quietly. “Do you wanna grab food?”

Dean shakes his head. The longer they drag this out, the harder it’ll be. “Need a ride back?” he offers, knowing Sam won’t accept. They’re both acknowledging it. They’ve got to cut the cord. “No,” Sam says.”It’s okay.”

Dean rubs his head against Sam’s like a cat before he pulls away and climbs to his feet. They get dressed in silence. Sam holds out the whisky bottle wordlessly, but Dean shakes his head again. “Keep it. Bring it to a frat party,” he orders. _Think of me_ is left unsaid, but Sam hears it anyways.

Sam follows him out to the car. Dean wants to pause by the driver’s side door, wants to stop and hug Sam one last time, but he doesn’t dare. Instead, he slips into the seat, closes the door, winds the window down. Sam leans in.

“If you need anything - if, if you’re in trouble - ” Dean stumbles over the words “ - nothing’s changed, you know? You call me. I’ll come. I’ll always come for you.”

Sam closes his eyes, looking pained. “I know. But I’ll be fine.”

Dean laughs humourlessly. “I know you will.” He turns the key in the ignition and his baby rumbles to life beneath him. Sam’s face screws up at the familiar sound and his knuckles go white where his fingers are clenched around the window frame. “Dean…” he whispers, opening his eyes and sending daggers into Dean’s heart.

“Bye Sammy,” he whispers back and then Sam is backing away and Dean turns his head to reverse out of the parking spot but also to hide how his eyes are welling up again. As he rolls out of the parking lot he knows that Sam is still standing there, but he won’t look, can’t look. If he looks, he’ll be lost.

He gets onto the freeway hell bent for leather, pushing down on the accelerator. He needs to get the fuck out of California.

He doesn’t know it now, but it will be two and a half years before he comes back and when he does, everything will change forever.


End file.
